


Reflecting the Giver

by ilcuoreardendo



Series: Another Space and Time (Star Wars fics) [3]
Category: Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captive Obi-Wan, Feels, Force Inhibitor, Gen, Gifts, Light Angst, M/M, Poor Obi-Wan, Post-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Prompt Fic, Some Plot, Vaderwan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 12:24:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11851524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilcuoreardendo/pseuds/ilcuoreardendo
Summary: After Obi-Wan is caught in the outer rim, chasing word of surviving Jedi, following that small light of hope through the darkness of space, he expects the worst.He expects imprisonment.He expects pain.He expects execution.He does not expect this





	Reflecting the Giver

**Author's Note:**

> From an anonymous prompt received on [my Tumblr](http://ilcuoreardendo-fic.tumblr.com) for a Vader/Obi-Wan fic where Vader is sort of obsessed with Obi-Wan and is giving him gifts. Obi-Wan is, of course, confused. 
> 
> I originally intended to go for levity...but my muse had other ideas. So here we are.

* * *

 

After Obi-Wan is caught in the outer rim, chasing word of surviving Jedi, following that small light of hope through the darkness of space, he expects the worst.

He expects imprisonment.

He expects pain.

He expects execution.

He does not expect to wake in the mornings, in a private suite, to the pale gold of a Coruscant sunrise. From his window, he can see the spires of the Jedi Temple, the red Imperial banners that now festoon its exterior walls. He wonders if that is on purpose.

He does not expect to have breakfast brought in by a service droid. Hot spiced tea and toast, coddled eggs and fresh fruit or fried cakes with sugar.

He does not expect to kneel on the balcony in the warmth of the early summer morning and meditate. As much as he can with the neural disruptor around his throat, an energy field draped like a shell over the balcony. There will be no escape from this vantage point.

He comes to expect the void-dark presence in his room the morning of every Primeday, an hour into his near useless meditations. He listens to the rasp of breath through the respirator. He never turns around. And in these moments he is…almost glad his connection with the force is severed, otherwise it would be too tempting to reach out, to touch, to brush mental fingers along Vader’s force signature as he had done so many times with Anakin, as his Master, as his friend.  

Vader doesn’t try to talk to him. And he never stays long. When he leaves, he always leaves something behind.

The first time it was the tail feather of a firebird, shining dark red in the wan light of the room. Obi-Wan wondered at the feather, at its meaning. He finally placed it on a shelf where the sunrise caught it and the vane burned crimson in the morning light.

The tail feather was followed by a small box of handmade sweets Obi-Wan had given Anakin on his birthday, during the last several years Anakin was his Padawan.

Then a pearl from the Corellian sea, small and shining blue and black like the eye of the universe.

 After that, a book of poems Obi-Wan used to keep on his shelf at the temple. He remembers it constantly disappearing into Anakin’s room during the years they lived together, returning with pages slightly dog-eared and the binding falling open to the most oft read pages.

Today, it’s the river stone Qui-Gon had given Obi-Wan for this thirteenth birthday, black as onyx, shot through with veins of red that seem to pulse, glow. Obi-Wan had, in turn, given it to Anakin on Anakin’s thirteenth birthday.  He remembers Anakin fiddling with it occasionally as a Padawan and later as a Knight, on flights, on watch, lying in his sleep roll, unable to sleep for the adrenaline still coursing through him from battle.

He lifts the stone from the corner of the settee, cradles it in his fingers, warm and smooth as he remembers. He closes his eyes, tightens his fingers around it, and brings his hand to rest against his mouth. If he holds it tight enough, breathes deeply enough, he thinks he can feel the golden-bright energetic hum of Anakin’s force presence, before Mustafar, before…. _Before_.

When he opens his eyes, he sees gold sunlight, the bright burning feather on its shelf, next to the book of poetry. He feels the stone smooth and warm in his hand.

And he wonders what it all means.


End file.
